Blood Pact
by Love Like Homicide
Summary: After a confrontation with Michael Mike sets out to prove he is more than just a poser, but he makes a deadly mistake. With nowhere else to turn he counts on Michael to save him from the consequences.


**Rewrite of an old story.**

* * *

Powder-breath mixes with cigarette smoke and evaporated around their grey scarves, pulled tight against pulsing, ivory necks like woollen nooses. The misfit quartet wanders through the deserted parking lot of the Village Inn and towards the sterile, fluorescent glow of a glass door. They aren't used to the cutting light anymore and for a moment it burns their eyes shut. They used to meet at the Village Inn every night, but since Michael started middle school they've barely managed once a month.

They step inside, one at a time like a prison march, until Henrietta freezes. Michael hits her back and Firkle hits his, but Pete breaks the pattern and steps around them to stand beside their matriarch. 'You've got to be kidding me,' she says and motions to the booths, already full of another black-clad clique.

'Dammit, there's more? Can't they find their own place?' Pete asks, flipping his hair out of his face.

'This is fucking ridiculous,' Michael says and approaches the group. He stands over a table and sneers at the occupants, who respond with a chorus of hisses like the sizzle of icy water on a hot pan. 'Hey Dracula, what the hell do you think you're doing?'

A boy with green-tipped hair and a pierced eyebrow returns the hateful look, although on him it could be mistaken for a pout. 'Why, I am enjoying the full moon in the company of my immortal comrades, per se.'

He rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, whatever, just keep it out of the Village Inn. In case you fags have forgotten, this is our place.'

Mike smiles. 'My apologies, but I was under the impression this was a diner. We have just as much right to be here as you do. We too prefer to contrast the light of the moon against the darkness in our souls, per se.'

'What the fuck is dark about being a douchy, wannabe vampire with glitter eyeliner and plastic fangs?'

Mike scoffs. 'Vampires are much darker than you, feeble human, could ever understand. We're reclusive and nocturnal creatures, which is why we prefer to hunt and feed at night… Per se.'

'You think real vampires hunt by sitting around and drinking tomato juice?'

'As I stated, there is more to us than simply our method of feeding.' Mike crosses his arms over his chest.

Michael stalks closer until Mike's entire table is engulfed by his shadow. 'Right, and yet you don't even do that. Let's get one thing straight, real vampires are Goth as fuck. You, however, are a spineless, wannabe poser who probably can't even handle the taste of his _own_ blood. Now get the fuck out of our booth, or you'll feel the darkness of my foot up your ass.'

Mike stares at him for a couple of seconds, stone-still, then stumbles to his feet. 'Fine,' he sputters, voice a few octaves higher. 'There're plenty of places far more suitable for us children of the night.' He heads towards the door and his minions to follow, still hissing. Henrietta flips him off as he passes.

Michael shrugs. 'Whatever, fag.' The goths climb into their newly reclaimed booth.

Mike is not pleased. Over the last couple of years he has read every book, watched every movies, and listened to every song about vampires he could get his hands on. He knows everything there is to know about his current obsession, and he's done everything he can to become as close to the real thing as possible. Well, everything except drink another human's blood. He even ignores the health guidelines and takes his stake extra-rare. Yet Michael, a Goth, dares to call him a fraud. Despite their differences he's always considered Goths and Vamp-Kids to be kindred spirits. Both cliques share a love of candles, Poe, and the colour black – and both are consistently misunderstood and mislabelled by their classmates and society as a whole. Because of this, even after the Scottsdale incident he still unconsciously put the Goths up on a pedestal – thought them above the critical and abusive words of his conformist classmates – but now he's been proven wrong and he cannot supress the knot of pain and disappointment strangling his heart. He knows he isn't a real vampire, but he'd expected a fellow alternative to appreciate his efforts.

Now he's at the end of his rope and loitering outside a local dive bar, preparing to take the final, irreversible step towards vampirism. It's a few minutes to midnight and patrons are pouring out. Mike slips into a nearby alleyway and waits, watching for someone exceptionally wasted. Someone who won't be able to fight back or identify him in the morning.

A group of men catch his attention. Poor bachelors, abusive husbands, and recent divorcees – local lowlifes who no one would believe if they started telling stories, even with a couple holes in their neck. He sets his sights on one man in particular – a thin fellow with long, wiry limbs and sweat-stained clothes – who trails behind the others. The further they walk the slower he gets until his head slumps forwards and he stops completely. Mike follows from a distance, slipping behind post boxes and street lamps whenever possible.

The man slumps against the wall and starts to slide down, like he's fallen asleep. Mike takes a few, hesitant steps closer and the man doesn't acknowledge him. He attacks. He grabs the man from behind and drags him into an alley, then pushes him against the bricks. The man opens his mouth and Mike smacks a hand over it before he has a chance to make a sound, then uses his free hand to pull down the side of him shirt. He takes a deep breath and bites down as hard as he can. There's a pop. The taste is overpowering and his face feel wet as the liquid spills out around his lips, but he can't feel it in his mouth as he swallows. As it cools he becomes hyperaware of the thick, metallic blood filling his mouth and he pulls away. The muscles in his throat tighten and revolt until he can't force a single breath in. He drops the man, who fall in a groaning heap on the concrete, and hurls into a large blue dumpster. He keeps going until his sides ache and he can't get anything out but pink spittle. He leans his forehead on cool metal edge, closes his eyes and tries in vain to regulate his breathing. He couldn't do it. This was all for nothing.

The strangled moans turn to wheezing, and Mike doesn't notice the noise until it stops. Everything goes hauntingly silent. He lifts his head. Silence is never good. He turns, and the action takes forever, like he's suspended out of time and out of his body, then all he can see is glass. The empty glass bottles on the ground, the shards of smashed alley window, and the man's glassy eyes. Empty, glassy eyes. There is no alley. No time. No man. Just Mike and those eyes.

The wind slashes his face like tiny blades and he becomes aware of the blood congealing on his lips and chin, and that the blood pooling on pavement is about to do the same. The man is white and frozen as snow. Dead.

No, he didn't do this. He couldn't have. He's not a monster. But his DNA are all over the wound and probably inside of it, and there's blood drying on the front of his white shirt. He's seen enough TV to know that there's no point washing it. He did it, and he has no idea how to cover his arse.

He needs help, and only one name comes to mind – Michael. He'll know what to do. He won't go straight to the police like his minions would. Mike just hopes he'll listen, since it is at least partly his fault.

There's another loud, echoing _'clack'_ and Michael snaps his journal shut. He's sitting on the faded cream carpet of his bedroom with a cigarette between his teeth and attempting to write a new poem, but every he catches the muse someone throws a rock at his window and it escapes again. He hasn't checked who it is, since his friends always call ahead or let themselves in, so whoever is down there has no business being in his backyard. He doesn't plan to waste time telling them so.

Another rock. And another one. And again.

He tosses his journal on the bed and slams the window open hard enough that chipped paint rains down from wood panelling. Standing in his yard with a handful of rocks and an orange face is Mike Makowski. Michael rolls his eyes, because of course it's Mike. Who else is this annoying?

'What the fuck do you want, poser?' Michael demands.

Mike jumps. 'Shhh!' He spins on spot, searching for a glow of eyes or crunch of footsteps. 'Can you keep it down?'

'Are you high?'

'Can you come down here, please? I need help.'

'The fuck? No,' Michael says and frowns. These no way he's playing babysitter for a Vampire on a bad trip.

'Please, Michael? It's urgent! I swear I'm not crazy.' Mike holds his hands in front of his face, like in prayer.

'Fine,' Michael concedes, but only out of curiosity. 'Make it quick.'

'Yep,' Michael says as he lights another cigarette, 'He's pretty dead.'

Mike fists his hands in his own hair and pulls. His breathing is picking up and he tries not to choke on spit. 'I know that, but what do I do about it?'

He shrugs. 'I can mail you back to Scottdale?'

Mike's face turns green. 'I'm not leaving town again! I need real advice!' His eyes water and his mouth pulls down in wrinkly scowl. He rubs his sleeve over his eyes and tries not to cry, but only manages to dirty his sleeve and smudge his eyeliner. A high whine sounds from the back of his throat that shocks even himself.

Michael watches with a raised eyebrow. 'Well, shit man,' he says. 'What the fuck do you expect me to do? You got your _saliva_ all over him.'

'You're the expert on this death stuff,' Mike sobs, 'you have to think of something!'

Michael sighs and taps his cane against Mike's back in pseudo-comfort. 'What happened to radiating the "darkness of our souls" or whatever?'

Mike smacks the stick away. 'I just killed someone, what do you want from me?!' He tries to put himself back together but it's too hard. Everything is too hard right now. He's already broken down in front Michael, a virtual stranger, so why hold it in? He collapses onto the concrete, unfazed as the blood seeps into his jeans, and curls into himself. He cries and moans and gasps and pulls at his hair until he's completely shattered.

'Oh, for fuck sake!' Michael yells and stomps out his cigarette. He grabs Mike by the arm and yanks him to his feet. 'Now you're getting hair in the blood! I swear, do you want to go to prison?'

'No!'

'Fucking hopeless. Okay, I'll help you.' He crosses his arm and looks back at the body, eyes calculating.

Mike gives him a tight, teary smile. 'Does this mean you have an idea?'

'Just let me think, okay? And stop leaving fingerprints everywhere.'

He thrusts his hands above his head. 'Okay.'

After a few moments of nothing, Michael sighs. 'You're screwed, man.'

'Seriously?!'

'Yeah. Unless you, like, dissolve the body in acid or some—'

'Will that work?!' Mike asks and jumps in front of Michael, noses barely an inch apart.

Michael leans back. 'Dude, I was joking.'

'But will it work?!' He presses, digging his sharpened nails into Michael's shoulder-blades.

Michael doesn't register the touch, the wheels in his mind turning faster than a spinning top. 'Yeah, and I know a good place to get it, too. But first, go home and get a suit bag and some cleaning supplies. Not all the cops in this town are _completely_ retarded.'

Mike nods so fast it's a wonder his head doesn't fly off, then prints off.

He returns, and Michael makes quick work of shoving the corpse into the bag, then orders Mike to scrub the concrete. Michael deems his work satisfactory and they throw the supplies into the dumpster. They each grab an end of the bag, then carry it through the empty streets and into the woods.

The further they go from town the more anxious Mike gets. 'Ah, Michael?' he whispers, afraid those glowing lights in the distance might be eyes. 'Are you sure you know where we're going?'

'God, will you shut the fuck up? Of course I know where we're going, now keep your mouth shut and be grateful. I didn't have to do this.'

'Okay, sorry,' Mike snaps, then lowers his head in a pout.

Michael glares over his shoulder. 'What was that? Do you think I _want_ to be an accessory to murder? I'm not kidding when I tell you to be fucking grateful, I don't even know why I'm helping you. I wouldn't do this for any other poser.'

Mike's ears get hot. 'I am. Really grateful – I mean. Thank you.'

Michael nods.

The trees clear and a gigantic metal gate comes into view. The arching sign on top, written in glowing gold letters, reads: _South Park Genetic Engineering Ranch_. Beyond it is a hill with a curving dirt path up to the hospital-like building at the top.

'It's just up there.'

Mike takes a deep breath and tries to detangle the knot in his stomach. 'Okay.'

Michael drops his end of the body and approaches the fence. He pushes a small grey button under a speaker and a man's voice booms out. 'Who is it?'

'Hey doc, it's Michael.'

Silence.

'The Goth kid.'

' _Oh! You're friends with that small boy whose always here asking about human experimentation. What can I do for you?'_

'I've got another friend here who wants to borrow some acid.'

There's a pause. _'What kind of acid? I'm no longer able to sell drugs to minors. Not since that… incident.'_

'The kind that can dissolve human flesh.'

' _Well you've come to the right place!'_ the voice said, almost frothing from excitement. _'What you're looking for is hydrofluoric acid. That stuff's far too dangerous to lend out, but you're free to use it as you like on site.'_

Michael nod. 'That'll work, thanks.'

' _Always happy to help.'_

There's a loud buzz and the gate creeks open. Michael turns around, about to pick his end of the bag back up, when Mike grabs his wrist. 'Are you sure about this?' he asks.

Michael lightly tugs his arm away. 'Of course. This guy's done crazier shit than this.'

Mike sighs, then nods, and they pick the bag back up.

Dr Mephesto sets them up in a shed behind the lab, then helps load the body into a giant metal barrel. Michael explains what happened – much to Mike's horror – and Mephesto laughs. He tells them about similar things he did in his own youth, things that make Mike uneasy and will be appearing in his nightmares for years to come. But he supposes so will everything else that's happened so far.

'It'll be done in a few hours,' Mephesto says as he peels off his protective gloves, 'so I'd appreciate it if you could watch over it until then. I have some very important work to take care of.'

Michael nods and Mephesto leaves. The boys sit together on the grey concrete and stare at the barrel, reflecting on the night. Mike speaks first. 'I think I'm a bad person.'

Michael looks at him, and his gaze lingers on the heavy crease in his eyebrows and the way each blink is longer than the last. 'Because you killed someone?'

Mike shakes his head. 'Because I don't feel bad about it.'

'Then you're probably a bad person, but so what? There's nothing you can do about it.'

'That's easy for you to say, you're a good guy. You helped me when you didn't have to. You haven't killed anyone!' Mike puts in his head in his hands and tugs his fringe.

Michael lights a cigarette. 'You think I'm a good person because I helped you _dispose of a body_? Seriously? You've got low fucking standards.'

'I'm being serious!'

'So am I. I just helped cover up a murder, and guess what? I don't feel bad about it either. We're the same right now.'

Mike doesn't reply, instead he lets go of his hair, pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face it them. His whole body shakes.

Michael runs his cane down Mike's spine in a soothing gesture, and Mike sighs. 'Also, I was wrong,' Michael starts. He leans his head on his own knees, facing Mike. 'You aren't a poser. What you did tonight was hardcore.'

'Thanks,' Mike mumbles. He lifts his head and smiles for the first time in hours. 'So, what now?'

'What do you mean?'

Mike's cheeks turn pink and he lowers his eyes. 'Does this make us friends, per se?'

Michael shrugs. 'Sure. I mean, why not? You aren't much of a conformist poser anymore.'

Mike grins. 'In that case, do you want to watch the sunrise with me?'

Michael cringes but, not wanting to destroy Mike's improved mood, concedes. Just once won't kill him. 'Fine, but then I'm going home. I need coffee.'

Mike scrambles to his feet, then grabs him by the forearm and halls him out onto the chemically enhanced grass.

What happened that night will never leave their minds and will come alive in flashbacks and nightmare for many year, the horror and fear renewed with every missing persons poster and news report until the feeling destroys them. They both know this. Still, for now they can watch the sunset and pretend everything is okay. The sky changes colour and Michael savours it, for the first time happy to see a colour, and happy to be seeing it with the Vamp-Kid. Mike's hand grasps his and he lets it. He welcomes it as something physical to ground him to this moment – to help him memorise this overpowering relief and calmness. Mike feels it too.

The sunset is beautiful.


End file.
